


Felt Like Flying

by Liz Kenobi (Amidala_Thrace)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amidala_Thrace/pseuds/Liz%20Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she saw him, it was like euphoria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felt Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 fic exchange at Jedi Mistletoe on LJ. The title came first, odd for me. I personally interpret the story to be set during the Clone Wars period taking place in my multichapter SW fic To Ignite the Stars, but you don't need to have read TIS to understand it. (Just know that Anakin and Padmé never married, and she is in a relationship with Obi-Wan.) Originally posted December 2009.

When she saw him, it was like euphoria.

At times like this he was her drug, though she would never admit that to him, would never admit precisely how much she needed him. Would never admit that she thought of him sometimes during Senate sessions, while some dowdy old politician droned on about The State of Our Galaxy and How the War is Ruining Our Future and What History Will Make of Us. Padmé would arrange her face into what she hoped was an interested expression — they certainly seemed to believe her, anyway — and she would think of him. She'd think of being held by him, of his whispers in her ear, of the last time she had seen him … when he pressed her into the mattress and made her moan his name.

It allowed her to emerge from many a session with a smile on her face despite the desperately banal conversation.

But nothing compared to seeing him in person.

Nothing compared to the moment when she caught sight of him across the landing platform and the months of separation seemed to melt away and she could just _watch_ him, watch him before he saw her.

Obi-Wan was so skilled at diplomacy. Almost as good as she was, and Padmé wouldn't say that for many Jedi. No matter how tired he appeared to be (and she knew when he was tired, picking up on the thousand signs that other beings usually missed), he was always polite, courteous, and non-committal. Three things essential to good relations, and few people excelled at all of them. Obi-Wan did. He shook hands, bowed, acknowledged congratulations on the latest victories, tried to temper Anakin's boundless enthusiasm. Padmé grinned at that. Master and apprentice were far closer than either might ever admit.

Diplomat by diplomat they made their way nearer. This battle had been a successful one, though with many casualties, and as such there were numerous offers of thanks to accept. Happiness and excitement rose in her and she had to temper them quickly, stop a wide smile from spreading across her face. It would give away far too much.

"Afternoon, Senator." Anakin was first, as always. Padmé had never stopped being thankful to him for not trying to pursue her further once she made her feelings clear. She loved him dearly, but as a friend rather than a romantic partner. Nowadays they were more brother and sister than anything else. If Anakin Skywalker still loved her, he never let on, out of respect for his Master.

"Commander Skywalker." She gripped his hand and offered a warm smile. "On behalf of the people of Naboo, please allow me to express my sincere gratitude for your actions on Muunilinst. You have rendered a true service to the Republic."

It was couched in diplomatic terms, because it had to be. All around her was the whirring of HoloNet cameras, an ever-present reminder of what she and Obi-Wan stood to lose.

_He_ stepped up beside her.

Instantly the air around her warmed.

Padmé sucked in an inaudible breath.

"Senator Amidala, it's a pleasure to see you again."

That accent — goddesses, it would be the death of her. Even when he spoke to her like this, in nothing more or less than an official capacity, her mind conjured memories of the other times, their shared encounters behind closed and locked apartment doors when his voice sighed out against her lips and when he could do nothing but gasp out her name as she rode him to satisfaction. She thought too of nights alone, nights when a comlink message was her only connection to him and she played it, over and over, as she worked herself to climax.

"The pleasure is all mine, Master Kenobi." Padmé loved the sparkle in his eyes right then. It was invisible to onlookers and perhaps even to Anakin, but she knew.

She knew.

He embraced her for just a moment, kissed both her cheeks as per Nubian custom, and her skin burned where his beard had touched it. She hoped she wasn't blushing. Or sweating, for that matter, which would be even worse.

This was intoxicating. No liquor could compare.

He had moved on, and Padmé pasted a Senator's mask on her face. _Later_ pounded in her blood with each beat of her heart.

_Later._

Later.

Later.

***

When she could touch him in private she was almost overwhelmed.

Obi-Wan hadn't arrived as soon as they both had hoped, and Padmé had learned and re-learned over the last hours that _later_ could also have a negative meaning, that it could be torturous. She'd watched the HoloNet broadcast on her private viewer and found her hand sliding up her thigh, almost of its own volition, to where she was wet and desperate. But desperate only for one thing, one form of satisfaction, and her own ministrations could never provide that. She had forced herself to imagine what he must be going through, how his arousal would be so much more difficult to hide, how hard (she smacked herself mentally for the unintended pun) it had to have been for him to see her but not kiss her, not in the way they both wanted, on the landing platform.

Along with his diplomatic skills, he was also second to none in the area of self-restraint. Surely, as a Jedi, he wasn't experiencing as much difficulty as she. So Padmé had made herself stop. She had told herself that if he had to wait, so would she. She reminded herself that any climax would be so much more satisfying if he was present.

When he came through the door, she fairly flew across the apartment.

She pressed him against the wall, or perhaps he pressed her; with the euphoria overwhelming her again it was impossible to tell who had acted first. Her lips were on his and she kissed him desperately, needing to assure herself he was there and that she wasn't going to simply wake out of some cruel dream.

Three months he'd been gone. Goddesses, it was too much. Too long.

Padmé didn't know what to do first, how to get what she wanted as fast as possible. She fumbled with his belt and got his shirts off, but was then distracted by his bare chest, and she leaned against him and listened to his heart beating, a steady, quick thump. Meanwhile he had embraced her, was squeezing her tightly, breath shaky as he inhaled over and over. She realized he was smelling her hair, just as she was filling herself with him.

"Roses," Obi-Wan whispered, and he sounded wistful, reflective. "You smell like the roses that used to grow outside the palace."

Padmé knew he meant Naboo, and smiled. "That's just my shampoo," she teased with a laugh.

"I forget sometimes." He still hadn't let go. "All I smell is mud and fire and death. Nothing like Naboo."

"There was fire and death there too," she sighed, and regretted saying so. Obi-Wan knew that as well as most Nubians, his own Master having been slain there. An old pain, but she continued to suspect he had never quite gotten over it.

"Enough," said Obi-Wan softly. Padmé knew he wasn't talking to her, but to the war, perhaps to all wars, to the Trade Federation invasion of ten years ago. She knew, because they'd spoken of it, that he was not naturally a warrior. Unlike Anakin, he did not thrive on combat. He abhorred it; could not take life without feeling the death keenly. All Jedi did, but Obi-Wan seemed particularly attuned to it.

He kissed her, and this time it was he who seemed desperate, he who tugged off her nightdress and explored her body, palming her breasts, circling her nipples with his thumbs, making her moan into his mouth.

"Pleasepleaseplease …" Padmé never believed she could sound so needy, but she did, and he'd begun to back her towards the bedroom before she stopped him, abruptly, and dropped to her knees. Pulled the drawstring on his pants and reached inside, freed him. As she had expected, he was already half-hard and soon firmed to full length under her ministrations.

Obi-Wan was right where she wanted him, gasping as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked gently, obscenely. She would never have called herself an expert at this, at pleasuring a man the way most women in adult holovids seemed to do so easily, but she would also never have offered it for any man but this one. He certainly seemed to appreciate her talents, and clutched the back of her couch for support, her name a litany on his lips.

Padmé waited until she could taste him, until the salt liquid on her tongue told her he did not have long, and opened her mouth, letting him fall from it. His moan was a whine, a complaint at the sudden lack of stimulation.

"_So close_ …"

In answer she grasped his wrists, pulled him down to her, kissed him and let him fill her in the way she truly wanted, in the way she had wanted since spotting him on the landing platform. Her skin warmed and she was amazed not to be shooting sparks, not to be on fire, not to be in some kind of danger because — _oh — oh — goddesses — this should be illegal —_

Obi-Wan was atop her now, moving slowly in and out, his eyes dark with desperation. Desperation for _her_, and she was proud, so proud that he was hers, that only she could see him like this. That he was home and that her goddesses had seen fit to return him to her in one piece, that he had been spared once again. Simultaneously she wondered how many more favours she could ask of the galaxy, if it would allow her this again.

Surely she didn't deserve it. Surely she didn't deserve to be loved so completely, so unconditionally, and by a man who was supposed to possess no attachments.

But he did.

And she did.

And his eyes closed, and he held her close as she felt him reach fulfillment and she arched — up — _there_.

Felt —

Like —

_Flying_.

Back. He was back.

The lights of Coruscant twinkled outside as she ran her nails along his back, marking him, possessing what she was not permitted to possess.

The sweat was drying to a sheen on her body when he carried her to the bedroom.

It felt like flying.


End file.
